


Don't Witchers have, like, a 'Sixth Sense' or something...?

by Leviosally468



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ...Or is he?, ...plus one they didn't, 5 things the trials prepared him for, 5+1 Things, ALL THE FLUFF, Cute, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Falling In Love, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, L is for the way you look at me, M/M, Scenting, The witcher’s heart grew three sizes that day, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Senses, five senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviosally468/pseuds/Leviosally468
Summary: That hardened amber scrutiny softened, sliding languidly until they locked onto the hazy pools of endless blue that he felt he could have drowned happily in, and the witcher thought briefly that this must be what tunnel vision felt like. And though he had spent many a long moment reading Jaskier with his eyes; gazing at him…intohim…he thought the bard was the only other being on The Continent that truly saw him back.OR,a study of Geralt’s 5 vastly improved senses, +1 that neither his intense training nor the trials could have ever prepared him for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 194





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaos_monkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/gifts), [antithestral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/gifts).



> Dedicated to two of my fav authors for this lovely ship, both of whom have written delightful 5+1's  
> Hope everyone's holiday weekend is safe and relaxing!

1\. They flicker; catching almost in slow motion the way the serpent’s fangs flash, snatching its prey with what others would describe as ‘lightning speed’ before withdrawing back into the undergrowth. For Geralt, it’s speed, but there’s nothing lightning about it. It’s the way he has been made to perceive the world in order to survive. 

He placed his whet stone back to his blade, focused, but at the same time not, his expanded periphery drinking in every subtle movement that took place in the space beyond his sword and logging it away; constantly sorting the information in a never-ending loop that told him whether it was time to remain idle or take sword to hand. As he drew the stone slowly, yet purposefully along the swords edge, he caught a glimpse of himself in the polished steel. Eyes the color of molten amber stared back at him; eyes that had once been a rich brown, simple and generally accustomed to nothing more rigorous than appreciating the glow of his mother’s face, or a rather magnificent sunset. But that was a long time ago, practically in another life. 

His glowing cat-like orbs are now a far cry from their humble beginnings; hardened and polished with pain, perseverance, and anguish. It had taken time, but he had grown used to them; grown used to the almost blinding saturation and sharpness of color and texture that the mutations had granted him. In many ways, his eyes permitted him the ability to perceive what words never could; he considered himself something of an expert in discerning the various thoughts and feelings of those he encountered based upon little more than a twitch of the brow here, or the flicker of lips there. Darkness descended around him, but Geralt didn’t mind it. The deepening shroud of night hid many things for many people, but not for the witcher. Monsters were still evil, sometimes more-so; people were still just as maddeningly weak, blind, and uncouth as they were in the light of day…the only thing that Geralt found he much preferred about the burgeoning cloak of twilight surrounding him was that perhaps it hid him from others…granted him a bit of peace…a moment for himself in a world where he spent so much time toiling for the sake of others. His tight brow drew downward over burnished liquid pools of gold as the witcher stared back at his own eyes.

"Stare any harder, and you’ll go cross-eyed…” A pair of aquamarine orbs looked up at him from somewhere by his knee where their bearer lounged, legs crossed, hands folded behind his head and back leaning against the log upon which Geralt sat.  
That hardened amber scrutiny softened, sliding languidly to lock onto the hazy pools of endless blue that he felt he could have drowned happily in, and the witcher thought briefly that this must be what tunnel vision felt like. And though he had spent many a long moment reading Jaskier with his eyes; gazing at him… _into_ him…he thought the bard was the only other being on The Continent that truly saw him back.


	2. Chapter 2

2\. Sometimes he felt like he was struggling to breathe over the roar; it suffocated him just as surely as a pillow pressed over the face. Every shout, every mutter, every clank of hammer on metal, every scrape of a cart’s wheel, every whinny, every cough, every rustle of the breeze, bark of laughter, the patter of hundreds of feet on stone, the crackle and sizzle of cooking, clop of hooves, creak of wood…on and on and on and on until it filled his head to bursting and he retreated in on himself.  
  
_Slow breath in…slow breath out…_

His brain finally catches up, a filter of sorts kicking on, allowing him to pick out which sounds are important enough to hang on to and which ones can be allowed to fade into the dull roar of what most ordinary people dubbed ‘background noise’. For Geralt, it’s noise, but there’s nothing ‘background’ about it. It’s about embracing a trait that means the difference between life or death; picking up the scrape of claws upon the ground, or a sharp rattling breath from the depths of a dense fog-shrouded thicket; aiding, before his eyes can even see, a growing scene of what awaits him next, lying coiled and ready to strike…but it’s the path he must walk, and perhaps he resented it from time to time, but at least they had bothered to improve his bloody hearing in the first place. He supposed he should be grateful, but it was hard to be grateful for a life you didn’t choose. 

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back...meditative…calm. For now, the world around him was quiet; or as quiet as it could ever be for someone whos ears could distinguish the drop of a pin in the midst of a hall full of drunken banqueters. The calls of several different varieties of bird, the buzz of countless insects, the rustle of leaves caught in a light breeze, the distant burble of water over rock and the gentle crunch of Roach grazing off to his left echo in his head. To ordinary ears, this melting pot of sound would hardly be considered ‘silence’, but it was as close to it as the witcher would ever get and the gentle noises comforted him…reminded him of times past…simpler times. These moments to himself, steeped in utter, blessed ‘silence’ were few to him these days, and he embraced them like a warm blanket. It was like cleansing his palate and it centered him…strengthened his resolve…his _purpose_ , and it wavered only slightly when a new sound drifted into his conscious.  


The scrape of leather boots on gravel sliced through his reverie, magnified a hundred times in his mutant ears, but rather than disrupt his trance-like state, the sound was a welcome harmony to the virtual symphony around him. He didn’t open his eyes or turn; his ears serving to complete the already growing image in his mind of a man of medium build, soft seal-brown crop of hair rustling silkily in the pleasant breeze, liquid sapphire-blue eyes appraising his back with curiosity (he _felt_ that more than anything), and perfectly pouted lips drawn in an… _admiring?_ (at this point he couldn’t be sure without looking) smile…and, for once, uncharacteristically silent as the scratch of leather on rock came to a halt barely a foot from his shoulder. His ears pricked as the silence between them grew, picking out the dry rustle of Jaskier’s hands clenching and unclenching; the small wet sound that let him know the bard was most assuredly worrying his lower lip the way he often did when he was nervous; his rapid heart rate thrumming in time to the growing climax of sound, and his slow steady breaths…each one a pleasant whisper that called to Geralt…beckoning him home.

A resumed scuff of boots on gravel, and a low, soothing hum announced Jaskier’s departure from Geralt’s bubble of meditative aural fantasy. The bard hummed an abstract lullaby, tranquilizing the air around him and filling his ears…filling his very _soul_ …and Geralt thought briefly that this must be what it was like to only hear one singularly predominant sound, and he felt in that moment that he could quite grow used to the idea of listening to that beautiful voice, flooding his head with the warmth of a thousand embers, _forever_ …but Jaskier wasn’t to know that.


	3. Chapter 3

3\. Of all of the ruthless afflictions Geralt had been made to endure, he thought he could have absolutely done without a staggeringly invasive olfactory…no, not _thought_ he could… _knew_ he could. Gods be damned, he would have been quite at his ease carrying on through his endless days of trading the services of his sword for coin completely oblivious to the gut wrenching wall of squalor that invaded his nostrils with every fatal blow, be it monster or human, like a brick wall; sending him reeling and effectively blocking out any and all other thoughts from his overstimulated brain. It wasn’t the sort of smell one simply ‘got used to’. It made him long to dunk his head in a bucket of water until his lungs felt like they might explode and black spots danced in his vision. 

Over time, he had developed a few tricks to help him breathe through the reek; Focusing the tangled pathways of his nerves…picking out a singular, non-threatening scent and honing in on it helped ease the torrent, allowing other less desirable smells to pass through without turning his stomach to acid and filling his throat with bile. It was also part of the reason he braved the shelter of an inn. When the weight of it became too overwhelming and the smell of it on _himself_ made any attempt at tuning it out nigh impossible, a hot meal and an even hotter bath could at least provide a short reprieve for his aching nose. 

The scent of death and filth and decay were simply a part of life for everyone including Geralt and they referred to the fetor of it with all of the indifference of someone explaining how one and one made two. For the witcher, there would always be death, and there would always be rotten corpses, and there would always be the inevitable smell of all of it that stung his nose like a swarm of angry bees…but there was nothing indifferent about it…much as he often pretended otherwise.

There was a second problem: Being able to detect the difference between a Drowner and a Kappa from several yards off was all well and good, but living in a mind-fuckingly arduous state of _seeing_ another’s thoughts, feelings, and emotions as their accompanying scents spiked in his nose, laid as plain and bare as if they had been written on a sheet of paper made him want to sick up. If there were ever moments he felt truly cheated by the mutations, these certainly qualified. It robbed the world and people around him of a collective element of surprise and discretion. It robbed _him_ of the ability to think through and process the oral and visual nuances of others organically or with any semblance of social normativity. The swirling tirade of scents that hung like an aura above their heads so often betrayed well in advance what they toiled so rigorously to keep from being expressed on their faces. It was why he avoided crowds; seldom were the traitorous, stinking thoughts of the masses kind, especially towards him, and he found it was generally better to avoid the situation entirely.  
It had certainly thrown a wrench into making or keeping friends and/or relationships…  
  
…Until the scent of brandywine, lavender and sweet mint had accosted his nostrils this very day in this very room twenty-two years ago and had him second-guessing the way he despised this trait. Geralt thought briefly that this must be what the smell of pure, unblemished bliss smelled like and he marveled at the way it filled his head, blocking out everything else. 

Jaskier always smelled clean and honest and sweet and sassy and his thoughts never betrayed anything (well, _almost_ never) that wasn’t already written in his features (or in his bloody songs) and it left Geralt feeling stunned and rather in awe. Even on that first day, all those years ago here in Posada, the bard had smelled of his usual aforementioned mind-erasing tang, plus a thirst for adventure, a sharp spike of curiosity, charm and guile and a soft note of raw physical allure even then… _that_ heady scent had almost knocked Geralt unconscious and he had spent far longer than he cared to admit picking it apart and trying to decide what to do with it. But what had left him utterly weak and dumbstruck was that Jaskier had not once smelled of fear… _never_ fear, leastways not of Geralt and that was the point that had sent the stones tumbling into place…his trump card. And now he was like a tall, stunning brunette sprig of witcher catnip. Geralt leaned into his bards head as it rested on his shoulder and filled his lungs over, and over, and over, until he thought he might pass out.  
The scratching of Jaskier’s quill upon his notebook of staff paper stilled and Geralt could feel his cheek swell lightly against his shoulder in a smile.

“Keep that up, and Mr. and Mrs. table-next-to-us are going to start getting the idea you intend to eat _me_ for dinner instead of your mutton…” Geralt grinned as his nostrils flared, attempting to ball up Jaskier’s scent as though it could be saved forever.

“Not dinner…maybe dessert…”


	4. Chapter 4

4\. 

“You know what they say about a man with large hands…” Jaskier whispered as Geralt’s heavily calloused fingers traced gentle lines over the curve of his hip. Geralt hummed his usual slightly deflective, I’m-not-dignifying-that-with-a-straight-answer response as his hands continued their gentle ministrations.  
Jaskier’s skin was soft and supple, still protected by the elasticity granted by youth and unmarred by the labyrinth of scars and blemishes that make up the landscape of Geralt’s own body. The witcher’s hands were rough and his skin was thickened from the unceasing friction of the hilt of his sword against his palms but even that isn’t enough to dull the sensation that warmed his fingertips as they appraised every square inch of his lover’s body. 

This is the touch he craves the most; the gentle slide of his hand into the valley of Jaskier’s waist, drifting over the soft slope of his shoulder, across the smooth tilt of his neck, ghosting over the soft pink pout of his lips and finishing with a gentle fist in his silken brown tresses that tugs lightly, eliciting a soft groan. The feel of Jaskier’s hot, heavy breaths washed over his chest like a warm tide and he could feel the heat of desire radiating from his bard’s body. This is his favorite way to touch; he thirsts for it, yearns for it and practically demands it after each hunt now in an attempt to cleanse the feel of death and putrefaction from his body. Whether it leads to sex or not, Jaskier is always willing, and so there exists a balance now like a set of brass scales that pegs the bards affections against his gruesome work, and Geralt never even knew he had been missing it.  


On The Path, his hands gripped his sword and he danced the waltz of destruction with all the sure-footedness and precision that his line of work required…that the mutagens had granted him; what most would casually refer to as ‘cat-like witcher reflexes’. Maybe they were cat-like, maybe not, but there was most definitely nothing _human_ about it. For Geralt, it served mainly to enhance his other vastly improved senses; affirming the feel and texture and consistency of any given object in any given circumstance…which was often why he wore gloves on the hunt. His elevated sense of touch made him uniquely sensitive to temperature and pressure changes, though he admittedly could usually _smell_ a storm before anything else. It was also one of the main reasons witchers were encouraged to drink potions before a fight, because although he had been graced with a superhuman ability to heal, overly-sensitive skin made the initial bite or sting or slice of talons all the more uncharacteristically painful unless under the nerve-numbing influence of the decoction.  


Jaskier’s lithe fingers carded through his silvery-white tangle of hair, stirring an affectionate rumble in his chest and causing his lids to slide closed. His bard’s lips closed in turn over each raised pucker of scarred flesh that littered his heavily muscled body, travelling steadily south over his chest and abdomen. Geralt thought briefly about how his rough, hewn skin felt under his lover’s caress, for he himself was sorely tempted to never move again, happily imprisoned under the maddeningly soft assault of Jaskier’s fingers and tender brush of his lips…cli- _fucking_ -che’ as that was. Jaskier draped his arms over his chest, nuzzling his face into the soft frizzle of hair that lightly covered his belly and wriggled contentedly between his thighs until the witcher felt as though their very skin were melted together.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap is decidedly a little sillier and plot-ier than the first few, but I couldn't resist extrapolating on the idea that we almost never see Geralt eat during the course of the show and the one time we do, it's steeped in the dubiousness of whether he chooses to roast his venison or eat it raw...

5\. Geralt didn’t give nearly enough credit or license to his sense of taste. In fact, he half-wondered why it hadn’t abandoned him completely after all of the raw, unseasoned, bitter, texture-less things he had eaten over the years. The mutagens had supposedly blessed him with a highly sensitized palate; the kind that should have meant he traveled with a personal chef, not a bard, but maintaining the level of physical fitness that his work demanded meant he spent a lot of time eating wherever he was at the time (usually buried in a dark wood), with whatever he had on hand to cook with ( _maybe_ a fire), and was merely content to stuff down whatever it was that he could find, ideally without expending any more precious energy than he had to. It filled the void created by hunger, it gave him strength and energy to do what was needed. 

He took upon the task of shoving whatever was edible into his mouth with no more preamble than he did in tugging on his clothes and armor. The distinct tang of gamey, half-cooked meat on his tongue might’ve been a sentence that Geralt had brought upon himself, but it was nothing a cold mug of ale couldn’t wash away. And if the witcher’s heart lay anywhere in the realm of earthly delights, it was in the cool, frothy zing of hops and yeast that cleansed his palate in a most poetic way. 

He should write that one down…tell Jaskier he was to write the ‘Ballad of the Ales’ instead of the usual string of euphamisms he used to lark on about Geralt’s… _attributes_.

It wasn’t that he didn’t find enjoyment in a hearty stew or a sweet slice of pie, but treating his tastebuds to the finer, alluring delicacies of culinary mastery was simply not high on his priority list. Not to mention the fact that most common folk seemed eager enough to comment loudly on the state of his meals even when he did opt to dine at an inn; 

_‘Looks a little over-cooked for a witcher…’, ‘…no baby’s fingers or maiden’s tears in that one…’, ‘…I heard they prefer to drink the blood of their kill…s’how come they got no feelin’s…’_

So maybe he liked his meals rarer, but there was nothing cannibalistic about it…baby’s fingers were likely tough and maiden’s tears decidedly sour anyway. And so, for Geralt, sustenance had become little more than a means to an end rather that something that was intended to be enjoyed as the object of pleasure.

Jaskier had a priority list…and food ranked number three (though recently, bathing had been pressing its advantage, due in part to Geralt)…and was trumped only by sex (number one), and performing (number 2). From the day they had met until now, the bard had spent more than a few moments berating him loudly that he should really stake more value and respect in the culinary arts. Everything was an art to Jaskier, and it was this maddeningly charming attribute that Geralt often found irresistible, though he neglected to speak it aloud.

This was how the witcher had found himself unceremoniously stuffed into a silk tunic ( _‘So you don’t look so unbelievably conspicuous and witchery…’_ ) and dragged to the bard’s favorite watering hole, which according to him, also served the most ‘mouthwateringly _orgasmic_ fare’ that had ever graced his taste buds without demanding a dress code or his entire purse. 

Rolling his eyes and puffing a heavy sigh, Geralt held his forkful of seasoned and grilled fish before his eyes, allowing the rest of his senses to kick in first and he was suddenly finding it more and more difficult to keep the curve of a smile from his lips as he popped the bite in his mouth. Across the table, Jaskier’s grin widened as he stared over the rim of his goblet at Geralt’s face which was slowly and inexplicably cracking into a picture of pure bliss. He felt his tight brow unknitting, jaw going slack as he chewed languidly, eyes sliding into an unfocused haze. It was flaky, not tough; it was savory, but not overbearing and balanced by a perfect sweetness that he couldn’t place. It was fresh and mild and earthy and tender and tangy and…it make his cheeks tingle and his mouth water, and Geralt thought briefly that his own priority list, which shared the same number one spot with the bard’s, might suddenly be in serious jeopardy.

“…And now a sip to cleanse…” Jaskier said slyly, extending his globe of wine towards Geralt, who was still trying and failing to contain the little hums of delight that were usually so very rare outside the bedroom. Geralt extended his goblet in return and took a slow sip of a sparkly, citrus-y wine that he found balanced, dare he say _enhanced_ the savory nature of the fish in a truly magical way that sent his head spinning. Gods, what on earth was his world coming to?

Smiling thickly now, the witcher leaned across the table and curled a fist into his bard’s doublet and tugged his mouth onto his own, allowing his most favorite flavor to continue the growing intoxication of his brain.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy humpday, e'rybody! 
> 
> PS, the title for this is a line that Jaskier speaks to Geralt from my larger fic, 'We had words, and an aversion to silver' and it's what finally gave substance to the inspo for this work. Thanks for reading!

6\. It had started small…with the little things.  


Like all good love stories it had begun with a look; the wide-eyed, curious appraisal of a seemingly unlikely suitor, and was followed swiftly by the even bolder assumption that the witcher was there for any other reason than to drown in the bottom of his mug of ale in peace. Whether briefly considerate of this fact or simply undaunted by it, his brown-haired, blue-eyed admirer had invaded the witcher’s space with a rather uncharacteristic determination, sweeping breadcrumbs from his shabby silk doublet…brazenly _unafraid_ under the penetrating golden gaze that had all-too-previously sent many greater (and lesser) men jogging swiftly in the opposite direction. His eyes were usually the first thing that sent humans into hiding with their tails between their legs, yet this one stood before him without even the merest shred of self-preservation. _Interesting_ , to be sure…but it didn’t mean anything.  


The generally overwhelming cacophony of sound that usually assaulted Geralt’s ears was suddenly dulled as the bard’s voice washed over him; asking him mindless questions, admonishing him for this or that and giggling heartedly at his own jokes…more than this, Geralt found himself almost _unable_ to absorb anything else when Jaskier sang. He didn’t fully understand it…he thought perhaps he had taken ill until he remembered that the notion was ludicrous and decided instead that it must be some trick of the acoustics of the inn. Henceforth, in an effort to waylay this rather pathetic affliction, he held the bard at arm’s length with reproachful metaphors of his own, feigning indifference as he stewed at a corner table, nursing his tankard broodingly. After all, distractions were made to unveil weaknesses, and that was something Geralt couldn’t afford, nor did he need. Allowing the bard’s presence was already pushing his luck to the breaking point in that regard.  


It didn’t stop him from punching every last one of any given tavern’s patrons who dared insult Jaskier. Geralt sneered even as they lowered their voices, whispering spitefully in hushed tones…as though it mattered around a witcher, and he picked out every last word as though it had been shouted across the room. Perhaps he was a bit _possessive_ …but it didn’t mean anything.  


He wished he had the words back as soon as he had spoken them…that day on the mountain. 

A blow to the head with a blunt object would have felt kinder than the utter reek of agonized scents that assaulted him. He wished Jaskier had punched him. Seething tendrils of hurt and torment; waves of regret and uncertainty; a godsdamned _deluge_ of grief, tension, deception, despair…and…heartbreak…It was enough to fucking drown him and he deserved every bit of the lung-crushing twists of pain. He had trouble justifying why he had even done it. It hadn’t brought him peace, or comfort, or relief or resolution; it should have…but it didn’t. He could smell the stench of a thousand emotions on himself, and it irked his nose the same as the day his sword had birthed him from the gut of the Selkiemore. The acidic twang of longing and sorrow, the dull leech of regret, the undeniable fetor of yearning and… _heartbreak_ …what did that mean?  


The way he crashed into his arms, knocking the breath from his lungs almost sent Geralt stumbling back. Hands made strong from many hours of fingering his instrument, massaging the ache from Geralt’s own shoulders, and rubbing healing salves into his scarred skin gripped him as though he were clinging on for his very life. As he pulled away, blue eyes sparkled up at him; eyes that understood him, respected him, praised him, _desired_ him. Geralt tightened his grip around the bard’s waist and breathed deeply, cleansing his palate.  
  
“I’m sorry, Jaskier…”  
  
“I’m sorry too, Geralt…for a great many past offenses…but mostly, I beg your advance forgiveness for this…” Jaskier craned his neck upward and Geralt surprised himself with the ease in which he bowed his head the rest of the way, claiming his lips in a kiss, and relishing in the unique flavor that was purely Jaskier invading his mouth. The physicality of it was simple enough; Geralt had kissed plenty of people…but the emotions that surrounded him like a wildfire, connecting his tangible lust with…something he couldn’t quite name…was indescribable…but what did it _mean?_

*** 

Geralt hummed contentedly as the memories faded and Jaskier shifted between his knees, his head lolling back against his shoulder, chocolate fringe whispering across his nose. He gazed upward at the brilliant wash of stars above them. Geralt thought each seemingly small pinprick of light could be considered rather insignificant and almost forgettable by itself, but when delicately strung together in intricate patterns and constellations, it inspired a feeling of something powerful, something intensive, something… _greater_. Geralt grinned as Jaskier sighed contentedly in his lap. He though back on all the moments that they had shared; singularly forgettable snapshots in time woven similarly into a complex and beautiful pattern that was now their life together. Geralt thought it must be something akin to what most traditionalists labled as a ‘fairytale happily ever after’. 

__

For Geralt and Jaskier it wasn’t always ‘fairytale’, and it wasn’t even always ‘happy’, but it was theirs…and it most certainly would be ‘ever after’. Jaskier breathed easily in front of him, warm fingers tracing idle lines into his thighs, and Geralt wondered briefly if this is what _love_ felt like…And immediately grimaced with the realization that the words had tumbled from his lips out loud. He felt Jaskier’s body flush, the sweet scent of happiness spiking in his nostrils.  
  
“Yes, beautiful, brave, albeit emotionally _thick_ monster slayer of mine…you’ve finally been bested at last by cupid’s beast…best not to fight this one though…” Geralt buried his nose into Jaskier’s hair;  
  
”I don’t think I want to.”

__


End file.
